


archival magic

by call_me_origami



Category: 30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい | Cherry Magic! Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?! (Manga), 30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい | Cherry Magic! Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?! (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Archivist!Kurosawa, CoWorkers to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mage!Adachi, Mutual Pining, Victorian era, magic au but the magic is more prevalent here, so many clothing descriptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_origami/pseuds/call_me_origami
Summary: Every seven years, the Toyokawa Institute hosts a Symposium, in which mages up for licensing and license renewal submit exhibitions to prove their merit. Adachi Kiyoshi has no idea where to start with his renewal exhibition.Enter Kurosawa Yuichi, Head Archivist of the Toyokawa Institute.
Relationships: Adachi Kiyoshi/Kurosawa Yuichi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which adachi panics, and kurosawa pines (though not entirely from afar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things: 
> 
> a) as always, blame the discord, who wanted a steampunk au, which i then turned into a steampunk-fantasy blend au set in around the late 1880s-early 1890s because why not? 
> 
> b) deepest of thanks to the lovely [creativityobsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativityobsessed/pseuds/creativityobsessed) for her excellent beta work
> 
> c) this will probably line up with some of the prompts from the challenge going on this month, but i'm not sure when i'll be able to slip those in - once i do, i'll add it to that collection
> 
> d) please enjoy!

There was something soothing about a quiet archive. Or, at least, there was something soothing about _this_ quiet archive, the gentle hum of protective spells around the most valuable tomes and the distant shifting of the creatures within, who were possessive of their precious hoard and took care to keep it clean and safe from dirty fingers or slippery hands. Their archivist, slender and small among the towering stacks reaching high, well above the point that any natural bookcase would have toppled under its own weight and instability, slid down the rungs of a tall staircase to land neatly on the floor with a muffled thump. Powder and dust went flying off of the shoulders of his jacket and the legs of his trousers as he brushed them off, watching the particles in the air hanging briefly before falling to the ground.

Kurosawa Yuichi preferred it when the archive was like this, quiet and empty, with him as the only human among the entities in the stacks. One of them, a dark, shifting smoke-like thing whose shape vaguely resembled a wyvern of some kind, nuzzled up to him as he brushed his fingers across the spine of a book that he’d just replaced, winding itself around his arm and shoulder to rest its half-corporeal head atop his hair and hum contentedly. It was a warm, comforting weight against his side as he pushed the return cart down the stack, replacing scrolls and books as he went. Kurosawa smiled softly to himself, turning his head into the creature and letting it paw affectionately at his cheek with claw-less appendages. He didn’t have names for any of the creatures that preferred to use him as a walking, breathing sofa while he did his own caring for the archive, but he recognized them all and knew of their particular habits. This one liked to wind itself around him from fingertip to wrist, and it wasn’t so solid that the weight bore on him intensely in any way.

“You’re clingy today,” he murmured quietly to the creature, reaching his free hand above his head to pat at the top of its smoky skull, smiling as the vibrating hum emanating from inside of it grew stronger, “did something happen?”

The wyvern shook its head against his hair in a strikingly human manner, which Kurosawa took as a no. He shrugged as best he could, continuing down the stack as he finished up the last of the returns. The front desk was empty when he emerged from the dark depths of the stacks, and he settled behind it with the wyvern still clinging to his arm and head with his own book in anticipation of several quiet hours to the end of his shift.

Which was why he was startled beyond belief when the door to the archive slammed open moments later, revealing a shockingly messy head of ink-dark hair dusted with some strange bright blue powder and a wide-eyed, half-drenched and panicked mage.

**

_Two hours earlier_

“Adachi Kiyoshi?”

The knock on the door to Adachi’s personal workshop, followed by a polite, muffled voice calling his name, could not have possibly come at a worse time.

“Uh- just a second!” He called, looking down helplessly at his powder-covered hands and even more helplessly towards the small mirror across the room, which revealed even _more_ powder in his hair and streaking across his face. There was a streak of dark charcoal across his cheek that he rubbed at frantically to no avail as it only worsened in size and intensity. Adachi sighed miserably, rubbing his hands through his hair and disregarding the sheer amount of dust and powder covering his entire body, more an attempt to dispel the nervous energy thrumming through his hands rather than any efforts to get rid of the powder – it was a derivative of water-pixie powder that he’d been using as an enhancement, so there was no way that was coming out any time soon anyway. He’d have to switch out that element for another river-creature derivative anyway, since the project assigned to him had to be compatible with those sorts of biologies, and- oh, _wow_ , the person at the door was shockingly impatient, knocking again with far more tangible annoyance as they repeated his name.

Adachi almost hoped that they’d go away if they thought he wasn’t there, but the explosion that had just occurred in his makeshift-laboratory was almost certainly audible from the hallway outside and likely several floors below as well.

His workstation was a mess of tools and ingredients, papers torn from old books and half-filled parchment sheets of scribbles taped and pinned to the walls as well as scattered all over his desk and floor. His most recent attempt at experimentation was currently dissolving one of his magnifying glasses.

Adachi groaned loudly, rushing to the door and throwing it open to the impatient grey-robed official standing on the other side with a stack of papers and a sour expression, her hand poised in the air to knock again. She was slightly shorter than him, meaning he had to awkwardly look down at her as he resisted the urge to pull anxiously that the hems of his sleeves.

“Are you Adachi Kiyoshi?”

He nodded, cringing at the bored, slightly irritated tone in her voice.

“Here.” The official shoved the stack of papers at him, not caring as several escaped the neat collection and fluttered to the floor. Adachi was still hastily picking up papers as she continued. “Your license is up in a year. The Commission suggests that all licensed mages up for renewal start preparing their exhibitions now, so you have time to refine it.” She eyed him once, raising a sharp eyebrow at the way he stammered out a response and bobbed his head, probably judging the sheer amount of charring and powder coating his shirt and waistcoat before turning away and walking down the steps leading to his workshop with the echo of clipped heels against stone. Adachi sighed, slumping back against the door and uselessly holding up the renewal papers in his hands. It was a strikingly thick stack that he’d been given, and he flipped absently through them without actually reading them as a rockslide settled nauseatingly in the pit of his stomach.

“What am I going to do?” He muttered dejectedly to himself, dropping his head back against the wall and kicking the door shut.

**

Kurosawa thought vaguely that he might be having a heart attack. Was that possible, to get a heart attack from being in close proximity to someone that he’d been admiring from afar for longer than he cared to admit? He didn’t know – but what he did know was that Adachi Kiyoshi was closer to him currently than he had been almost ever, and Kurosawa was breathing worse than a pneumonia-ridden grandfather running a marathon in the desert.

Lucky. He was so, so lucky. He was _too_ lucky.

“S-sorry,” Adachi muttered apologetically as he bumped into him a little too roughly, the pair of them leaning over the catalogue as Adachi searched for whatever it was that he’d come looking for. He’d pulled out the catalogue as soon as Adachi had entered the archive, even though most people that dropped by already knew what they were looking for and where to find it.

_Sorry? This is the best day of my life_. Kurosawa restrained the words from leaving his mouth, but it was a near thing.

“Not at all,” he said instead, smiling softly at him. Adachi’s hair stood up from his head like he’d been working with electricity, the ends coated in a strange blue powder that he recognized but couldn’t name. There was a streak of dark dust across his cheek that Kurosawa vaguely wanted to lick off. He kept himself from doing that as well, and only partially because he actually had no idea what sort of substance it might have been. “Is there anything in particular that you need?”

Adachi scoffed lightly. “Any sort of brilliant idea,” he muttered vaguely, flipping through the catalogue as his eyes scanned the pages at a speed that rivaled even Kurosawa’s fastest reading pace. He’d been right about his instinct, anyway – Adachi had given the desk a quick glance, something like determination tight and uneasy across his kind features before he’d taken several steps towards Kurosawa. For his part, Kurosawa had gently pushed the catalogue forward and rounded the desk, watching curiously as Adachi flipped open to a seemingly random page and started muttering to himself.

He faltered slightly, uncertain of where to go with that, but determined to forge ahead. “You’re the mage, right? That’s your workshop up in that tower on the west side of the institute?”

Adachi was dressed like one, anyway, even if Kurosawa wasn’t already intimately aware of the fact that he was the Toyokawa Institute’s resident mage. The vibrant blue of his capelet, hastily wrapped around one of his shoulders and clasped at the hollow of his throat but slightly singed at the edges, instantly gave away his status as a high-ranking mage, and the goggle-shaped indentations around his eyes made it clear enough that he’d been experimenting even without the dust-covered golden-brown goggles themselves, pushed high up his forehead and flattening down some of his unruly hair. The rest of his outfit was plain by comparison, a weathered brown tailcoat with faint pinstripes over matching trousers, a waistcoat that was just a few shades lighter blue than his capelet, and a plain white button-down collar peeking over the edge of the jacket, at the hems of his neck and wrists as well as between the lines of his waistcoat. All were streaked in dark dust and that same strange blue powder. His leather brown boots were blackened with soot at the toes, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, no necktie or ascot in sight.

Kurosawa had to forcibly drag his eyes away from the visible patches of skin between the claps of his capelet and the first button of Adachi’s shirt, feeling an impossible urge build like fire in his chest and up his cheeks.

“Hm?” Adachi finally looked up at him instead of down at the catalogue, soft brown eyes going wide as they met his own. There was an unfairly pretty flush building high in his cheeks. “Oh! Yeah, that’s me. I- um, I’m sorry, I really don’t know what I’m looking for.” He settled back with a sigh, scrubbing one of his hands rather harshly through the dark hair on the back of his head. Kurosawa vaguely wanted to grab his hands and tell him that everything would be alright, that whatever was making him so anxious would eventually turn out okay. But even if he knew who Adachi was, it was highly unlikely that Adachi would know him – the attempt would just come off as strange at best, pitying at worst.

So Kurosawa only smiled, closing the catalogue and settling against the rounded edge of the front desk to face opposite him. Adachi’s eyes were drawn to the wyvern-creature still snoozing on top of his head and stayed there rather conspicuously for a moment before he obviously caught himself staring, that high flush darkening prettily over his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured again, ducking his head, “um- what- who- who is that?”

“A friend of mine,” he replied, grinning brightly as he stroked down the creature’s back with one hand, “there are several of them in the stacks. This one likes napping on my head.”

Adachi seemed to relax, just barely, his hands twitching at his sides. “Are they friendly?

“To me.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Though I’m sure they’d like you.” _Mostly because I like you_ , he didn’t say, because Kurosawa had plenty of self-control and he used it quite liberally. “You can pet it, if you like. This one’s asleep for now and very little will be able to wake it up until it wants to.” Kurosawa extended the arm that it had wrapped its tail around, smoking at the edges as he continued to stroke down its back.

Adachi reached out a hesitant hand, smiling softly at Kurosawa as his fingers grazed the edge of his wrist instead of the wyvern’s tail, sending a jolt of electricity and a thousand goosebumps running up his arm straight to his brain.

Lucky. He was so lucky today, watching as Adachi slowly brushed his fingers over its tail and recoiled slightly at the half-corporeal texture of its body, more smoke than solid but still something soft and warm and breathing. Kurosawa delighted in the breathless laughter that escaped out of Adachi’s chest as he grew more comfortable with the creature, drawing a few steps closer to Kurosawa as he stroked up to its upper body where it weighed against Kurosawa’s shoulder.

“It’s…,” Adachi shook his head, “I don’t even know how to describe it.” There was a brightness in his eyes that wasn’t the frantic panic that he’d seen when Adachi had entered the archive, lighter and happier and sending something tumbling dizzyingly around Kurosawa’s chest.

Kurosawa smiled brightly at him, feeling the tops of his cheeks go slightly numb at how widely he grinned. “I know, right? Soft, but strange.”

“It’s _warm_ ,” he added wondrously, stroking up to the top of its head and then back down to the end of its tail before stepping away, taking the radiant heat of his body and that half-awed smile with him. “Thank you,” he said shyly, looking far calmer than he had before.

“Of course,” Kurosawa replied. “Is something wrong? You seemed… very anxious.”

He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth, as Adachi’s face fell back to that anxious misery, drawing his brow in so tightly that it almost looked painful even as he nodded vigorously. “Well, I have this project, and I have a year to complete it, but I have absolutely no idea what to do and if I don’t come up with something good then I’ll lose my license, and if I lose my license then-,” Adachi spiraled with a speed that rivaled even Kurosawa’s worst spirals, and he instinctively moved to clasp his shoulders between his hands as the man hyperventilated, fingers twitching as they wrung his singed capelet between his hands, wrinkling it even further.

“Hey, slow down,” he said softly, going for soothing, “Adachi, you need to breathe.”

“Breathe,” he replied breathlessly, nodding, “yeah, okay.”

Kurosawa pulled back, not wanting to crowd him as Adachi slowly calmed down, rubbing his hands across his face and spreading lines of blue powder down his cheeks like iridescent tears. “License renewal, huh?” He glanced back to the catalogue. “The Institute keeps a record of all the submissions given for the licensing exams. Maybe we should start there?”

Adachi nodded, face still in his hands. He was breathing better, which Kurosawa was happy to note, but he still seemed on the verge of panic. He pulled his watch from its pocket in his vest, flipping it open and checking the time. He could theoretically close the archive early, even though he’d be giving himself even more work to do tomorrow and the day after when it came to recording copies and re-shelving and the odd bit of research that he still had left. Fridays were slow anyway, and Adachi was the first non-scheduled visitor that he’d had all day. No one else had any appointments, and he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to focus on any of his actual work anyway now that Adachi had both come to his archive for help and was currently having a nervous breakdown right in front of him. He nodded to himself, closing his pocket watch and replacing it in his own vest after coming to a decision.

Kurosawa slowly untangled the smoke-wyvern from his arm, taking several steps towards the nearest stack as he did so and rewinding the tail around the metal bar bordering the wooden shelf, resting its head on the nearest horizontal plank as he separated himself from it. It remained unconscious, quiet and contented even as he slipped his fingers from soft smoke and stepped away.

Adachi was staring at him curiously between his fingers, still in front of the desk.

“Come with me,” Kurosawa said gently, placing his hand over Adachi’s bicep and nudging him lightly towards the entrance. “Have you eaten?”

Adachi paused briefly before shaking his head. “No, not since this morning.” Kurosawa resisted the urge to sigh audibly or chide him for not eating – it was nearly eight in the evening, so he’d likely gone the whole day without any food. Even Kurosawa at his worst had never skipped meals for so long.

“Let’s get some food, then. I’ll pay.”

Kurosawa ignored Adachi’s spluttering protests as they crossed the archive’s threshold from cool, regulated air into sticky humid almost-autumn heat, locking the door firmly behind him as they set off down the street.

**

Tokyo in the evening was never a place that Adachi enjoyed spending any time in – loud and close and crowded, people filling in every crack of available space as they rushed up and down the streets, charlatans and genuine mages alike sending sparks dusting through the air above all the hats and heads. Adachi caught sight of a fire mage unfurling a tiny dragon made of flame and smoke from his palm, tossing it high above him as it grew larger and larger in the sky until it was about the size of a small building, a winding and writhing creature of fine-tipped claws and shimmering scales and a wide gaping maw. It seemed to swallow the stars in the sky, flying over the crowds and sending hair and jackets ruffling like wind before it exploded into shimmering dust, falling bright and warm, gentle pinpricks of candlelight against his upturned face. Adachi glanced to his right and caught the way that the archivist – Kurosawa something, he knew vaguely from the odd occasion that he’d visited the archive with Urabe – had his own face turned up to the sky, his skin golden and glowing, the light from the ember sparks reflected in his soft dark eyes like fire or oil on water.

The archivist was kinder than Adachi had expected. Academics usually weren’t so grounded, weren’t so calm and steady as Kurosawa was, and he’d met plenty on his own to back up his assumptions, especially considering the fact that he was half an academic himself. Even he found himself rather flighty when interacting with the administration, his mind always wandering from one experiment to another even as his mouth sought for ways to escape unwanted conversation. Urabe had commented on this the most over the years, but that had never been enough reason for him to try and change it.

People knew academics were strange, anyway, and mages even stranger, so it didn’t hurt for him to lean into the stereotype as a shield. When he’d decided to go to the Institute’s largest magical archive to look for ideas, though, he’d been even more anxious about the idea of having to ask for help finding his way around than he’d been about searching for a suitable exhibition that he could develop from brainstorming.

Adachi had gone into the archive expecting the archivist to be more or less busy, more or less unhelpful, and more or less judgmental of his predicament, his appearance, and his… well, his everything, really. He’d really only decided to go in the first place because it felt like a better idea than going and bothering Urabe or Tsuge about it. It was supposed to be _his_ exhibition, not anyone else’s. Coming up with an idea to make sure his license got renewed was half of the task, after all, proof that the research that he’d been asked to do by the Institution was actually providing some sort of benefit to the magical world.

Kurosawa pulled him down the street without actually ever pulling him, his hand more of a suggestion that he followed blindly as he guided them towards whatever destination he had in mind. The archivist was certainly handsome, especially with that firm, determined set to his face. The few inches of height that he had on Adachi gave him a good view of his finely-shaped features, sharp cheekbones and jaw and nose and those strikingly soft eyes, thick brows and a full mouth that he found his own eyes being drawn to more than once. His clothes were neater than Adachi’s, and his golden-yellow necktie was perfectly arranged against his throat in the exact way that Adachi had never managed to achieve himself, sitting flat against his chest and with a complex knot at the center of the pinstriped collar of his button down. His jade green waistcoat was made of a rather expensive-looking brocade embroidered with gold thread that matched the color of his tie and lined down the center with polished bronze-colored buttons, the tie and waistcoat both bright and startling under his solid brown tailcoat. Kurosawa looked more like someone that should be hosting galas for socialites and celebrities, someone to be photographed and seen rather than hidden as an archivist in a quiet academic archive, and Adachi wondered vaguely at what had drawn him there.

He thought again of the smoke-and-shadow serpentine creature that had been using the archivist as a portable napping surface and figured that maybe even such a lovely face with lovely clothes could get rather tired of being around people too.

**

Kurosawa could not justify taking Adachi to the too-expensive Western-style restaurant just down the street from the archive, so he didn’t.

Instead, he brought Adachi to his favorite _yatai_. The tiny food cart was almost invisible in the alleyway between two large Western-style brick buildings, small and wooden and seemingly out of place and time compared to the Japanese-Western fusion architecture that sprawled across present-day Tokyo, large and scraping high against the stars as they walked back to the archive. Kurosawa had bought them both cold _yutakasoba_ to ward off the heat of the day and small savory skewers of _dango_ , munching happily on the latter. The benches lined along the small pathway leading up to the archive were empty, and Kurosawa picked one at random to sit down, patting the space beside him for Adachi to drop into.

He wanted to glare venomously at the people who stared at Adachi as they passed, whether it was at the blue capelet around his shoulders or the streaks of dust and powder down his cheeks or the massive goggles over his forehead. None of them had a clue how special the man sitting next to him was, how talented and brilliant. But glaring would be too strange, and Adachi would question him about it, and he’d have absolutely no idea how to explain it away without admitting the fact that he’d been harboring hidden affections for the mage for about as long as he’d been working at the archive.

“So,” Kurosawa started, wanting to milk every inch of the opportunity that had presented itself to him as he turned to face Adachi, who was slowly nibbling at his _dango_ with a drawn brow and conflicted eyes, “you’re taking the licensing exam?”

Adachi nodded, biting off another two small balls of savory dumplings. “In a year.”

A year? That was plenty of time, why was he panicking? Time to switch gears, then, since Kurosawa was relatively certain that asking would fall firmly in the category of Bad Ideas. “You performed at the Institute’s annual gala seven years ago, didn’t you?”

That had been the first time he’d ever seen Adachi – young, sweet-faced Adachi standing all alone on a completely empty stage in his fresh blue capelet and threadbare black suit, raising upturned palms to the ceiling as if in worship as he shut his eyes tight and murmured a soft incantation, a pinprick of light appearing in his palms that grew wider and wider and multiplied over itself until the ceiling was dusted in starlight and nebulae, galaxies and supernovas and billions upon billions of tiny stars dancing in time with the music of the small quartet of musicians playing in the corner. Every eye in the room had been turned upwards to the marvel, watching as the sky shifted and swirled to the rise and swell of the cello and violin.

Kurosawa’s eyes had been pinned to Adachi.

His suit had fit wrong, his capelet was too-starched and out of place, his hair stood on end in several different places, but Kurosawa hadn’t taken his eyes from the young man for a second. The way he moved was a magic of its own, like he was taking the music from the quartet and using it like thread to weave the tapestry of stars dancing above, his fingers and arms swirling around his head in the same way that the spiraling arms of galaxies wound and twisted. Adachi’s eyes had been shut tight, his face twisted in concentration and anxiety except for the briefest moment after he’d finished casting, when his eyes had opened to the wonder above their heads and he’d glanced upward just as everyone else had, his face going bright with astonishment and splitting into a wide, breathless grin that had taken Kurosawa’s heart fast and sharp and held it captive as the sound of his laughter carried even over the chattering murmurs of the awe-struck patrons.

Kurosawa had been just an archival assistant then, just barely important enough to receive an invitation to the gala. He’d been standing off to the side, two glasses of champagne in his hands that he’d been tasked with bringing back to the head archivist and his chief assistant, and they’d both gone crashing to the floor as his fingers went slack with wonder, shattering at his feet and splattering his brand-new trousers with sticky, bubbly liquid. Kurosawa had ducked out of the banquet hall and hidden in the restroom for the rest of the night trying to calm his racing heart.

In the present, Adachi was ducking his head and blushing furiously. “Oh- were you there for that?”

“It was beautiful,” Kurosawa replied wistfully, though refraining from adding that he was barely referring to the spectacle that Adachi had woven in front of their eyes, “one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-,” Adachi’s blush intensified as he sputtered, waving the _dango_ helplessly in the air as Kurosawa grinned, “it wasn’t that impressive, really.”

Kurosawa balked. “Adachi, you brought down the _stars_. How is that not impressive?” Adachi only smiled, shaking his head and bringing his attention back to his _soba_. Tension visibly leaked from his shoulders the longer that they sat there, and Kurosawa could barely pay attention to his own food with how enraptured he was by just being in Adachi’s proximity. The ends of his hair brushed against the collar of his blue capelet, dark and wild and still covered in dust. He smiled fondly, resisting the urge to brush the hair neatly back at the nape of his neck.

“So, what about you?” Adachi asked hesitantly, swallowing hard as he set his empty skewer to the side. Kurosawa nodded, more than willing to redirect the conversation if it was what kept Adachi sitting next to and talking to him. A thought shot across the forefront of his mind, sending panic sharp and hot through his chest.

“Oh God, I haven’t introduced myself,” he spun around to face him, inclining his head respectfully as Adachi’s eyes went wide, “Kurosawa Yuichi. Head archivist.”

Adachi dipped his head in response. “Adachi Kiyo-,”

“I know who you are,” Kurosawa laughed lightly, hands flying to Adachi’s shoulders to push him out of his awkward half-bow, “you don’t have to introduce yourself to me, trust me.” Was that too much? Did that make his feelings too obvious? Kurosawa pulled his hands away, glancing over Adachi to try and gauge how his words were being received. He didn’t look on the verge of running away, which was always a good thing, so he figured that it was just barely on the side of alright.

“Listen,” Kurosawa started, fiddling with his empty paper bowl and taking Adachi’s from his hands to dispose of, “if you need help, I’m more than willing to give you access to whatever part of the archive you’d like,” and _oh_ , that was absolutely too much, too fast, “and you can use me as a resource whenever you need.”

Kurosawa cringed at his phrasing, but didn’t take it back. Adachi sat still and quiet next to him for a moment, eyes pinned to his face as he scrutinized Kurosawa for anything other than seriousness.

Then he sighed, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m really supposed to come up with it on my own, I think,” he said dejectedly.

“Does it say that you can’t ask for help anywhere?” Kurosawa asked, almost desperate to maintain any line of contact now that he had one right in front of him. Adachi thought about it for a moment before scoffing lightly, a small smile bright and gentle across his face.

“No,” he replied, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, “no, it doesn’t.”

Kurosawa nodded, pleased and just the slightest bit smug - he had his opportunity right in front of him to befriend Adachi, and he certainly didn’t plan on wasting it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurosawa digs himself a deeper hole, and Adachi conducts an experiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a few hours late because of editing (MASSIVE thanks to [creativityobsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativityobsessed/pseuds/creativityobsessed) and [yamazaki_zakuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamazaki_zakuro/pseuds/yamazaki_zakuro) as well as [kurosawa-sun(zscribez)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zscribez/pseuds/kurosawa-sun) for their excellent beta work that turned this from.... well... let's just say there was some accidental rarepair going on that i hadn't noticed) but i hope you enjoy!

When it came to social interaction, Adachi had no idea what he was doing.

But it was nice that this total uncertainty was less related to his inability to figure out an idea for his exhibition, and more related to the fact that the archivist seemed to have taken a completely unreasonable amount of interest in him and his licensing exam. How was he supposed to deal with that? What did normal people do when near-strangers kindly and inexplicably offered up their services, time, and effort to helping someone that they’d only just met? He wasn’t ungrateful – far from it, actually. Adachi was just _confused_.

Kurosawa, on the other hand, seemed to be more invested in the success of Adachi’s exhibition than he was, and even more interested in Adachi himself than anyone should reasonably be towards another person. Letters would make their way up to his tower every morning, inquiring on his health, his hobbies, what he liked to eat, or what sort of magic he did before even asking about his progress (which, as Kurosawa was likely painfully aware of by the third day, was nonexistent). He didn’t know what to do with the interest – he replied to the letters almost immediately, because Adachi would feel so horribly guilty about wasting Kurosawa’s time if he left them unanswered. And Adachi would even pose questions of his own, if any struck him as he composed his responses. But he was ultimately at a loss as to what he should do about Kurosawa’s sudden friendliness.

There was one person in the world that Adachi knew for certain he could call a friend. And as he did whenever he stumbled upon something that baffled and overwhelmed him, Adachi called him. He gave the spark-imp operating the switchboard the name and number as he raised the phone to his ear and dialed, careful to keep his voice as polite as possible to avoid getting intentionally patched over to someone that wasn’t his intended recipient as he accepted the charge for the call himself. The imps on the other end giggled audibly over the receiver, sharp, high peals of mischievous laughter that indicated that _someone_ was getting connected to the wrong person. There was a short click, cutting off the laughter and filling Adachi with momentary anxiety as he waited for a voice on the other end.

“Tsuge Masato speaking.”

Adachi smiled at the cool, collected tenor of his friend’s voice over the phone, familiar and always helpful in instances such as this. He sighed, leaning against the wall next to the table where the blocky black phone rested, awkwardly fiddling with the cord even if the person on the other end couldn’t see his nervous fidgeting. “Tsuge, it’s Adachi.”

“ _Adachi_ ,” the man’s voice warmed instantly, going fond and soft, “how are you? What’s today’s crisis?”

“ _Crisis?_ ” He spluttered, half-offended. “I don’t only ever call you when there’s a crisis! A-and there isn’t a crisis, I’m totally fine!” Tsuge hummed noncommittally, and Adachi scoffed with just a touch of drama.

He could hear the soft shake of Tsuge’s head, the longer ends of his hair rustling audibly against his typical outfit of a cardigan and sweater, along with a distinctly dragon-esque screech in the background. “I could tell as soon as you spoke,” Tsuge countered with another hum. “So, are we getting coffee? Or is this a whole meal?”

Adachi wanted to protest – it really wasn’t that complicated, he wanted to say, except it _was_ and he was _lost_ and Tsuge knew people better than anyone else that Adachi had ever met, so there was no point in trying to downplay his problem.

Tsuge sighed. “Adachi. Whatever it is, you will be okay. I promise.”

“Meal,” Adachi replied firmly, “we need to catch up anyway, I want to hear about your novel progress. And Udon.”

Adachi technically wasn’t supposed to leave the institution during work hours, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to leave without his identifying capelet and pocket watch, but he hated the way that people’s eyes tracked him, sticky and sending cold shivers itchy and twitching up his spine as he passed. Most people didn’t understand mages – magic was almost always an inborn talent, so jealousy and mistrust had followed Adachi his entire life. Growing up in a historically mundane town in the countryside had only intensified those negative feelings, and the world he’d known so far wasn’t kind to such differences. It was just Adachi’s luck that he had them in spades. Moving to the city as a young teenager with his mother had been better, what with the higher concentration of diverse groups of people, even without magic – his classmates were a little less wary of his powers, the parents a little less conservative about the sorts people their children were taught alongside, the instructors a little more forgiving of his uncontrollable bursts of magic while he was still in training. But even after moving, he’d still been painfully shy and generally awkward. Getting used to the constant scrutiny, even after five years (even after twenty-five years, really, since his magic first appeared), was something that he hadn’t mastered.

Despite knowing that he shouldn’t, Adachi neatly folded his pocket watch into his blue capelet and tucked them both neatly away under several folders in his drawer. He tugged on a plain brown overcoat as he snuck out of the window of his tower and floated silently to the ground outside of the Institution’s protective warding, which put him in the back of an empty alleyway that was damp and somewhat sticky under his feet. Adachi reached into the space in front of him and pulled a black top hat from thin air, plain and rather small but enough of a disguise that any out-and-about administrators wouldn’t look twice at him. The hat sat almost weightless over his hair just as all illusions did, but he had grown so accustomed to this that he could walk down the alleyway and out into the open streets with something that wasn’t quite confidence but wasn’t unlike it either.

Tsuge was waiting for him at their agreed-upon restaurant, already sitting with a steaming cup of tea in his hands and a tray of appetizers sitting to his left at the edge of the table. Adachi kept his head bowed as he sat down next to him, only waving his hat out of existence and pulling off his coat when Tsuge took notice of him. His friend looked comfortable in his moss-dark turtleneck over brown trousers, far more settled in his own skin than Adachi ever was in his.

“How bad is it?” Tsuge asked instantly without greeting, his dark eyes narrowed in concern behind round gold glasses and pinned to Adachi’s face as he slumped across from him.

“Bad,” Adachi groaned, dropping his head into his forearms against the table, “I don’t even know where to start.”

Tsuge laughed lightly. “Well,” he replied, “usually, when I’m telling a new story, I start at the beginning.” Adachi lifted his head to glare half-heartedly at his friend, ruffling a hand anxiously through his hair.

“The licensing exam is coming up,” Adachi began, sighing as he propped his chin between his palms,“and I have no idea what to do.”

“You have plenty of time to figure that out.” Tsuge’s voice was a calm, soothing beacon against his anxiety. He sat across from Adachi, straight-backed and the picture of poise, which made it even funnier when he considered how agitated and uncertain he could be at times.

“That’s not all,” he moaned miserably. “There this archivist- don’t look at me like that!” Adachi spluttered helplessly at the raised eyebrow Tsuge automatically sent towards him, half-interested and half-teasing, and entirely too amused. “There’s this archivist who works at the Institute, and he- I don’t know, Tsuge, but he seems really weirdly interested in my work? And-,” _and me_ , he didn’t add, but the look on Tsuge’s face made it clear that he’d understood it anyway.

His friend looked at him patiently, fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table. A waiter passed, neatly placing their food at the edge of the table before leaving.

“I think,” Tsuge’s voice had gone low, his hand knocking briefly against the wood near Adachi’s hand, “that you need more friends.”

Adachi coughed, half laughter and half shock as he lifted his head. “Thanks, Tsuge.”

“Don’t take it that way,” he replied, sitting back and resettling into his usual aloof, distant demeanor. “This archivist seems interested in your work, right? Why not take advantage of it? You’ll need access to those resources anyway, and I know you’re bad at asking for help, so this keeps you from having to do it yourself.”

“I know, but how am I supposed to act when he wants to talk about _me_? He sends me all these letters that I barely know how to respond to,” Adachi replied, a little too vehemently, thinking of not only the letters but the way that Kurosawa’s eyes always went wide and interested whenever he spoke, or how he occasionally offered to bring food by Adachi’s tower if he’d been too busy to leave and get a proper meal himself, or even the way that Kurosawa simply _smiled_ at him sometimes, like Adachi had said or done something wonderful. And the worst part of this entire affair was that Tsuge started laughing – short chuckles that turned into mildly hysterical giggles, his cheeks going redder and redder the longer he sat there shaking.

Adachi stared at him, baffled, until his friend managed to calm himself down. “Why is that so funny?” he asked, half-hysterical himself.

Tsuge gave him a steady look, placing both hands palms-down and flat against the smooth, polished dark wood of their table and leaning forward until they were close enough that no one at the neighboring tables would be able to hear. “Adachi,” he said quietly, very serious, “he wants to be your friend. _Let him_.”

Adachi swallowed hard, feeling his eyes go wide and slightly terrified at the thought of the archivist – handsome, blinding Kurosawa, a shadowy creature napping on his shoulder as he kindly directed Adachi to the information he was looking for – actively wanting to and putting effort into being friends with him, the disheveled, half-competent mage who barely knew the sleeves of his shirt from the collar some mornings. What could Kurosawa possibly see in him?

“Don’t,” Tsuge added as a warning, easily reading the look on Adachi’s face as he slowly sank into the beginnings of panic, “think too hard about it, alright? Not everyone is as cruel as you’re used to, Adachi. If he’s reaching out, he’s doing it because he _wants_ to. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Adachi thought almost bitterly, remembering their early days as roommates in college when Tsuge had seemed just as shy and awkward as he was, and just as strange. But Tsuge didn’t stammer helplessly when talking to others, or constantly forget a stray hair or a streak of powder across his face, making him messy and unprofessional and generally someone that others avoided – Tsuge disliked being social just as much as Adachi did, but at least he wasn’t _bad_ at it.

Adachi sighed, knowing that these thoughts weren’t going to do him any good. There was no point in getting upset with Tsuge for something that he didn’t ever seem to struggle with. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, dipping his head respectfully at his friend, “I appreciate your advice.”

“I know, but you know well enough that my true advice is that you should adopt a dragon. Especially if you’re getting lonely up there.” Tsuge replied warmly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached to the side and pulled up his bag. “And speaking of, I have more photos of Udon. Would you like to see them?”

Adachi perked up instantly, an involuntary smile of his own spreading bright and wide across his face. Udon was Tsuge’s miniature dragon, a wriggling, writhing, hissing kittenish thing that liked to snarl threateningly at anyone that came close enough. Adachi and Tsuge adored her entirely.

“Absolutely,” he replied, leaning forward eagerly as Tsuge pulled out the small prints of charmed paper that displayed Udon’s black-and-white figure flying across a room, her long serpentine body spread nearly the span of Tsuge’s bookshelf as she jumped and played around, roiling and coiling through the air as she clawed after a string that Tsuge was obviously manipulating from behind the camera. Her iridescent blue scales danced in the sunlight streaming through the window behind her, recognizable even in black-and-white, shimmering like the white-capped surfaces of the oceans that her kind thrived in. Adachi made himself promise to come over and visit her before the month was up, since he hadn’t dropped by in a while and he missed taking warm, deep naps under the comforting weight of a tiny, scaly furnace.

They finished their lunch in relative peace. But Tsuge’s words weighed on him as he snuck back to the Institute, hat over his head and chin tucked to his chest – what was he supposed to do about his project, if Kurosawa wanted to help? He’d been right, in any case, about the total lack of guidance as to whether or not assistance was allowed from outsiders when developing an exhibition project. But Adachi couldn’t decide what was worse, if Kurosawa was only helping him because of some sort of interest in Adachi’s position as resident mage, or if Tsuge was right and the archivist wanted to be his friend outside of their work at the Institute.

 _He wants to be your friend_. Tsuge’s voice echoed in his head, words that were thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

_Let him._

**

Three weeks of mailing letters back and forth with Adachi had only served to worsen Kurosawa’s half-hidden affections. Adachi in his letters was almost exactly like Adachi in person – shy and hesitant, but also wonderfully genuine, earnest, and insightful. His penmanship was small but neat, words and half-phrases scratched out in places where he clearly worked through his thoughts directly on the page rather than taking the time to painstakingly think out every single word in the way that Kurosawa did. It was entirely too endearing, and he wondered vaguely if Adachi had always been that way or if he’d learned it over time from scrawling half-baked ideas or spells down onto pages before they could be forgotten.

It was easy to talk to Adachi in a way that talking to others never had been. Kurosawa was used to having to dance around truths, used to phrasing every word to perfection lest the people around him catch an inopportune slip-up and use it against him or his family. But the letters he exchanged with Adachi were breathtakingly freeing, and the more time he spent learning about his interests, his work, his life in general, the harder he fell for the fascinating mage.

“I have a problem,” Kurosawa sighed wearily to the snuggly smoke-wyvern that had once again taken up residence on his shoulder. He re-shelved a set of texts at the very top of the third shelf, a leg, an arm, and most of his torso hanging into open air as he reached up to put them into place, one leather-gloved hand holding firmly to the rail of the sliding ladder.

The shadowy creature only looked back at him, rather unimpressed if he was reading the twists of swirling smoke around pitch-dark empty eye sockets accurately. The smoke-wyvern nuzzled further into his neck and under his tie and collar, snuffling softly as its diamond-tipped tail swung lazily through the air, trails of dark shadow hovering in place before dissipating under a beam of sunlight.

 _And?_ It seemed to say, _what should I care about that?_

Yeah, he figured, that was accurate enough. Kurosawa finished his shelving with another bone-weary sigh, tugging on the leather glove hanging out of the side of his pocket and gripping the rail with both hands as he slid down the ladder, air whistling in his ears and through his hair, light and freeing and exhilarating as the floor drew closer. The wyvern on his shoulder clung tighter, tail wrapping around his wrist and arm like a vise.

Several other creatures of smoke and shadow surrounded him when he hit the ground with a solid _thump_ , the impact of hard soles jarring against wooden floors echoing in the empty archive.

Well, almost empty.

“Kurosawa-san!” The voice echoed loudly through the stacks from a position that Kurosawa couldn’t initially place, bouncing off the floors and walls and shelves as the sound of footsteps came thundering towards him. “Kurosawa-san, you got a letter!”

Another letter? He’d already received his daily letter from Adachi, since the mage seemed to get rather overwhelmed with writing more than once a day, especially when he was busy. Kurosawa stuck his head into the main pathway outside of the stacks to see his intern barreling towards him, fluffy short hair flying behind him along with the tails of his bright green jacket, hand outstretched with a large white envelope clutched tightly between his fingers.

“You got a letter,” he repeated breathlessly as he came to a stop before Kurosawa, bending forward to brace on hand against the knee of his unfortunately green trousers as he loudly caught his breath while the other remained stretched towards him. The envelope was clearly full, rounded at the top and bottom, and obviously made with rather expensive paper. Kurosawa felt his heart sink at the same time that his stomach made a convincing and almost-successful attempt at crawling its way up his throat.

One, the letter was clearly not from Adachi.

Two, he knew exactly who it _was_ from.

“Right,” he replied, swallowing hard as he gingerly reached forward to take the letter from his intern’s hand, the familiar texture of expensive paper and an even more familiar wax seal under his fingertips, “thank you, Rokkaku-kun. You can go now.”

His intern straightened, pulling at his deep brown waistcoat under his green jacket and eyeing him warily. “Is everything alright, Kurosawa-san?”

He nodded. “Everything’s fine.” Kurosawa barely managed to tear his eyes from the letter long enough to smile reassuringly at Rokkaku. “Please, return to your work now.”

Rokkaku smiled brightly, relieved, and clearly missing the tension that Kurosawa felt in every inch of his body. The intern bowed his head quickly once before spinning around on his heel and dashing back down the pathway.

Kurosawa stood in the middle of the archive and tried not to panic. His name – his full name, titles and everything – was written in perfect and achingly familiar calligraphy over the front of the letter. but it wasn’t the calligraphy that he’d expected when he’d first caught sight of the envelope.

“What do you want, _aneki_?” He sighed, tracing his fingers across the ink of his elder sister’s handwriting over the front and then the wax seal on the back. He recognized the family crest in the middle of it as he cut it neatly in half with the letter opener hidden in the breast pocket of his vest. 

The contents of the envelope consisted not of a letter but also a few paper notes and a ring – a familiar ring, and one that he’d never expected to see again.

Kurosawa closed his eyes and breathed shakily, resisting the urge to drop the envelope or throw it into the stacks or feed it to the wyvern still lounging curiously on his shoulder. One of the other entities, a large, four-legged creature that reminded him vaguely of a wolf, snuck up to his side and nuzzled comfortingly at his pant leg. Kurosawa dropped his hand absently to pat at its head as he fought to control himself.

He placed the ring into the pocket of his vest without giving it another glance.

Why couldn’t the letter have been from Adachi, he mused miserably, finally finding it in him to pull out the letter and unfold the thick, starchy paper. His second eldest sister’s handwriting covered the front and back of one page, with two separate pages written in an unrecognizable hand, and Kurosawa pinched the bridge of his nose before folding it back and replacing it in the envelope. He didn’t have time to read all of this – there was still work left for him to do, after all, he told himself.

When he returned to his desk, damning letter stuffed in the inner pocket of his jacket and ring heavy as it bounced against his chest, Kurosawa found his mood severely darkened. So much, even, that the smoke-wyvern felt it was necessary to shift itself, winding over his shoulders and clinging tight like a strange sort of half-solid blanket, warm enough to be comforting but not corporeal enough to weigh on him. He dropped into his chair and sighed, two fingertips flying to his temples in an attempt to massage away his oncoming tension headache, the weight of the letter in his pocket far greater than it had any business being.

Kurosawa glanced towards the research rooms lining the archive – Rokkaku would come calling if Kurosawa made even the slightest sound of distress, so screaming out his frustrations or venting them in any sort of audible way was, unfortunately, not a valid option. The old chair squeaked faintly under his weight as he swiveled around aimlessly, restless and anxious without any outlet for it.

A scrap of paper caught his eye as he spun around in the chair, his feet dropping to the floor to stop him mid-swivel as an idea struck hard and fast. Adachi’s letters sat in a neat pile in the corner of his desk, tied up with a red string that separated them distinctly from the other neat piles of correspondence and research cluttering his workspace.

Kurosawa dropped his head, smiling faintly. Adachi should still be up in his tower – he’d always hinted at visiting, but the mage had never outright responded to those hints, so he’d always assumed that he’d be unwelcome. But maybe he’d been reading too much into it. Maybe Adachi just hadn’t recognized his overtures for what they were.

Dark eyes and a shy smile flashed across his mind, warm and comforting and gorgeous. Kurosawa stood silently, pushing his chair into place and gently unwrapping the wyvern from his shoulder to rest on the top of his desk as he slipped out of the archive’s door and headed towards the west tower.

**

Smoke and sparks hung in the air as the explosion rebounded off of stone walls, echoing loudly in Adachi’s workspace as he coughed the dust and powder out of his lungs. There was a pulsating ringing in his ears that slowly died along with the flashing sparks and hovering smoke.

“Well,” Adachi said aloud to himself, waving away the smoke and tossing his jacket over the smoldering remains of his cheapest beaker, “that didn’t work.”

He sighed – his most recent attempt at developing a decent proposal for the licensing exam was currently a charred, half-melted mess of ingredients. Adachi had a vague idea in his head concerning what he wanted to submit, but it was too hazy and shifting for him to get a solid handle on it, and he always turned to experimenting whenever that happened. The ancient three-legged wooden chair propped up against the wall opposite his workspace creaked ominously as he dropped down into it, pulling his legs up to his chest and hugging them tightly, bracing his heels against the edge of the seat as his forehead thumped against his knees.

He wanted something that could help people. His first exhibition, seven years earlier, had been more _showy_ than _useful_ and this time he aimed for the opposite effect. Adachi bounced his head against his knees in time with his anxious muttering, speaking aloud to try and organize some of the wild thoughts in his head.

Mage-work was so much more than just magic to him. It was acceptance, belonging, usefulness. He wanted to return some of that to the world, if he could – he just couldn’t for the life of him figure out _how_.

Adachi unfurled himself from his tightly wound position, tugging off his waistcoat and remaining only in his dust-streaked button-down and trousers. Even his shoes had come off over the course of his frustrated experimenting, his body and mind both stifled in so many layers and entrapments that he couldn’t help but place them in the corner of the room to wander around sock-footed and half-dressed. His hands flew to his hips as he paced across the floor – the mess in his beaker had stopped smoking at some point, the residue through clear glass resembling some strangely kaleidoscopic mass of glittering light and crystallized powders. Adachi sighed – there was certainly no reusing anything in that, unfortunately. It still looked dangerously hot to the touch, the air around the mass shimmering faintly with heat. Adachi gave up the beaker as a lost cause and decided to dispose of it as soon as it was cool enough to handle.

The knock on his door startled a high, strangled yelp from his throat, so sudden and unexpected that he winced. Was it Urabe? The administrator had mentioned wanting to talk about his proposal a few days prior, but he hadn’t mentioned any plans to drop by when they’d spoken that morning. Adachi froze, hands halfway to his hair in his anxious indecision as his eyes darted around his lab. It was a _mess_ – his futon in the back was the neatest part of the entire room, and even that was hastily straightened as his half-hearted attempt to make it up in the mornings before getting to work. At least the floors were somewhat clean, but that was about all that could be said for the tidiness of his tower.

“Adachi?”

The voice at the door was familiar, at least, which calmed down some aspects of his anxiety and heightened others.

What was Kurosawa doing there? He hadn’t mentioned a visit in his letter!

“C-coming!” Adachi called, glancing down helplessly at his messy hands and clothes, socked feet and cuffed trousers, resigning himself to once again appear unprofessional and untidy in front of perfectly composed, impossibly handsome Kurosawa. He rushed to the door before Kurosawa could knock or call again, cracking it open to see the archivist’s face – oddly tense, his mouth thin and bloodless like he’d been pressing his lips together rather firmly – suddenly soften and relax as their eyes met. “Archivist Kurosawa,” he said awkwardly, half-dipping his head in greeting without tearing his eyes from the archivist’s. His fingers tapped audibly against the door where he held it open, half in the entrance and half blocking Kurosawa’s view of his cluttered workspace.

Kurosawa’s nose wrinkled as he stood there, shaking his head. _Adorably_ , Adachi’s thoughts added unconsciously as the archivist smiled, bright and dazzling to the point that Adachi had to squint vaguely against it or lose his sight altogether. “Please, it’s just Kurosawa. No need for formalities.”

Adachi nodded, deflating as he realized that Kurosawa probably had dropped by for a reason. “I- my workspace is a little messy,” he said apologetically, scrubbing his hand over the back of his head as he pulled the wooden door open further and let Kurosawa slide past, “I didn’t know you were coming?”

Kurosawa jumped slightly, whipping around to face Adachi with a mildly terrified look on his face as he dipped his head. “I should have warned you first, I’m _so_ sorry – you must be so busy!” He glanced around, gaze catching visibly on the mess of his workbench. “Have you gotten any further with your proposal?” His eyes widened as they took in the sheer mess that was Adachi’s appearance from shoeless feet to disaster hair before fixating somewhere around Adachi’s exposed neck. He watched Kurosawa’s throat jump as he swallowed hard, eyes rising to meet Adachi’s again with faintly pink cheeks.

His own flush crept tangibly up his neck as his shoulders shot to his ears, feet moving of their own accord as he lunged towards his small closet in the back of the room and pulled out a long indigo-dyed cotton night robe, tugging it around himself to preserve at least some of his modesty.

It was cold in the tower, anyway – colder after the heat from the unfortunate explosion had finally died down. Adachi stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of the thick robe, shoulders still hunched in around himself. “Not really,” he replied somewhat dejectedly, sighing, “but I still have enough time. It’s only been a little over a month since they gave me the notice.”

Kurosawa seemed to drain of tension right in front of him, still buttoned to the throat and perfectly composed, but appearing less and less like someone heading to the chopping block the longer he stood in the middle of Adachi’s tower space. He just barely remembered his own manners as it registered that Kurosawa wasn’t sitting down.

Adachi glanced behind him to the tiny kitchenette afforded to him by the Institute. “Um- would you like something to eat? Or tea? Or to sit down?” There was only one chair in the tower that was suitable for use, without any missing legs or ominously sinister half-sentience, and Adachi gestured half-heartedly for Kurosawa to drop into it.

The archivist smiled at him warmly. “I’d love some tea, thank you.”

Adachi made the mistake of glancing downwards. “Oh!” His socks were more than enough for him, but his mother had instilled in him the rules of proper hospitality from a very young age and he could almost hear her chiding him for his impoliteness. 

He rushed to the closet and pulled out the single pair of slippers that he owned (unused, really, since he’d never felt quite comfortable enough in the space to call it a home, and it was safer to wear thicker shoes while he worked anyway) and placed them neatly in front of Kurosawa. “Please, let me take your shoes.”

Kurosawa slid his shoes off neatly, gasping softly as Adachi waved his hand and they suddenly walked themselves over next to Adachi’s own by the door, tapping over in a half-jig like the shoes were happy to be placed next to his. Kurosawa’s eyes were bright, mouth curving up in a striking smile as he turned back to face him. “That was pretty cool,” he laughed softly, “do you just use magic for everything?”

“Um, sometimes,” Adachi mumbled, slightly uncomfortable under the attention even as he waved his hand again, muttering a soft series of incantations under his breath as he heard the gas stove click to life, a teakettle filling with water dropping audibly on top of the flames just moments later. “It’s a bad habit.”

Even mages were discouraged from relying too much on their magic for everyday use – it was a muscle, just like anything else, and could be overworked or even permanently damaged if users weren’t careful. Kurosawa shook his head, his hand reaching out to grip at the hem of Adachi’s sleeve.

“It’s a _gift_ , Adachi,” Kurosawa said firmly, a strangely intense look in his eyes that was gut-wrenchingly, disarmingly sad, “your magic is a gift, and no one should ever make you feel guilty about using it.”

 _Not like me, Adachi. Don’t be like I was_.

The voice that echoed in Adachi’s head seconds later wasn’t his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
